


Predictions and Errors

by PerilousDisguise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Molly, F/M, Infatuation, Masks, Moriarty sees all, Not everything is how it seems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilousDisguise/pseuds/PerilousDisguise
Summary: Although her presence in the lab was small, much like herself, Molly Hooper always knew that she would be the last one standing. She was nothing more than a wallflower, a static character most paid little attention to. With the reluctant unity of Moriarty and Holmes, the attention on her increases tenfold as her ex "gay" boyfriend waltzes his way back into her lackluster life. There were things Jim Moriarty failed to see when he used her as Jim from IT, and he wasn't going to allow those minuscule details to slip from him again.





	1. Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> First work on AO3 and the first thing I've seriously written in a while. Feedback would be much appreciated. And if there are any mistakes, please do let me know, this is un-beta'd.

If there was a single word to describe Molly Hooper- it was unassuming. Nearly everyone took her for granted, not including Toby and the few bodies she was able to save from Sherlock's desecration. She was replaceable, which made it all the easier to observe those around her.

She knew her supervisor was cheating on his wife, Janet, by the change of perfume he'd smell like after strolling in from a long weekend. His betrothed was a wealthy woman ten years his senior, she would never wear anything so sickly sweet like his new beau did. Hell, Molly met the woman herself and had never met such a regal aura before. Janet hardly seemed as if she'd be a fan of what could only be described as a Britney Spears scent.

Molly also knew the dirty laundry about the new intern's affair with the doctor in the burn ward. While the doctor's husband was away overseas, she fucked around with the young man who merely needed an internship for uni. They weren't very smart about it, leaving at the same time to "make phone calls" and returning together. Granted, they mostly fooled around at Bart's on slower days, but it was still unprofessional all the same. One mistake the doctor always made was forgetting to return her wedding ring's place on her left hand after a rendezvous with the boy. The pathologist had great pleasure in asking about her soldier husband and his deployment after making a comment about her missing jewellery. Seeing the woman flounder for words as she feared the not-so-secret status of her infidelity becoming public was satisfying. With time, Molly predicted that her coworker would get wise up about her cheating.

Where others failed to realize, Hooper did. Her job was to analyse what others couldn't in the face of death, meticulously pick apart corpses for that very sake. She couldn't afford to be blind: sloppy. 

She could easily see through Sherlock's bravado; he feared the loss of those he cared for. That wouldn't be an acceptable excuse for his treatment towards Mycroft and even John, but it was the truth. He was afraid for their safety, for them to be targeted because of his occupation. The consulting detective would rather they leave on their own accord rather than be forcefully taken out to prove a point.

Ever the loyal dog, Watson refused to leave. His older brother was very much the same, reluctant to reject the child he raised without the tender eyes of their parents. They would all watch the fortresses they built for one another crumble before their very eyes and Molly was just going to watch them fall. She wasn't going to risk breaking her facade in an attempt to patch the unstable foundation.

Many days passed under the naive guise Molly truly wasn't. How could they think her naive when she dissected the dead for a living? Some days were harder than others when she struggled to restrain herself from breaking character and jeopardize the illusion that took years of experience to solidify. Those days were where Sherlock's idiocy tested her will so much that she'd harshly curl slender fingers within the corpse she was working on, gripping bone rather than her scalpel that scored skin so easily. The knowledge of how it'd glide through Holmes quite prettily was thrilling, yet well hidden.

The addition of Jim Moriarty and his own personal guard dog- again too loyal for his own good, Molly thought with disdain, what's with military men- made everything so much harder. There was another set of careful eyes catching the reactions Sherlock was too busy to recognise, another set to deduce her in an entirely new way. It'd be too soon before she was exposed in an unsavory manner not unlike that of Irene Adler's unveiling to the world.


	2. Frayed Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The persona put forth was nowhere near who she was, and thus the frustration regarding her inability to act out festered. Molly exhausted her restraint, her resolve wavering. At what point would she visibly blister? Unfortunately, her glamour fell much sooner than she expected, all due to a hapless event involving those from her past. Oh sod it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Computer problems and family heath scares prevented my updates, not going to even apologize for things I couldn't control. I am going to try to be better about updating, but I also got a new job so we'll see how that pans out together. Thanks for reading!

Her hands roved through splotchy fur, tempo increasing in her frustration due to the infiltration of her flat by two absolutely asinine, arguing geniuses. Toby hadn't minded, pressing against her near frantic touch. He purred louder as he turned in her lap to direct strokes towards his head and shoulders. 

Both Moran and Watson occupied the couch beside her, scrutinizing the damage done as their respective consultants exchanged insults in the poor pathologist's flat. They sent her pitiful glances that Molly despised- she wasn't a damsel for Christ's sake! The men assumed the rapid petting of her cat was to ease her stress, a comfort to quell the building anxiety within the small woman. How wrong they were. None of them would ever come to the conclusion that a tempest of rage swept through her, tentatively waiting to be released. No, none of them would probably guess it. 

Already irritated that the pair decided to scatter things around her own flat, Molly refrained from lashing out until given a sound opportunity to do so. Meek little Molly required a valid reason- Margaretta Riona didn't. She longed to be Margaretta again, but couldn't abandon her mask- not this far in the game- so she waited. 

Upon seeing that Sherlock flailed particularly close to an antique from her late great grandmother Francine, she quickly took advantage of the opening presented to her. Passing Toby off to one of the others, lest she scared the innocuous feline, Molly stood with a raised chin and a scorching glare. 

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes! You break that and I swear that you will never be capable of doing it again!" 

The tone she took with him was startling. Where was the usual enamoured, doting pathologist? Molly had never sounded so... severe. 

Her posture changed, shoulders thrust back while her jaw clenched with defiance. The fawning chocolate gaze had tempered, darkening with spite. That was the only warning she'd give, he assumed. 

In return to her threat, he sneered but retreated from the heirloom all the same. He'd rather appease the one who had complete lab access rather than she tell him to "Piss off" like she should've years ago. 

Regardless of his reaction, the brunette remained tense. She dared him to come near the object again, poised to let it all out. Her patience had run thin. 

Even if the consulting detective mostly disregarded her change in tone, his deduction of the sentimental value of the trinket was far off. It wasn't that the vase was important, he merely pissed her off. How dare he storm into her flat, send her place into disarray, and break her things with no consequence? The scant notion of it riled her up! 

And Jim noticed where the others hadn't. 

Those eyes were not dilated in fear but contracted in rage. The dark sepia, much like his own, made it much harder to notice than if it were Moran's gaze- just a few shades deeper than the younger Holmes's. He couldn't help but grin; what an interesting revelation! 

Since then he attempted to revive that reaction from the supposedly demure pathologist, even going as far as to somewhat stalk her. He wished to incite the bubbling animosity her knew she possessed within her dainty being. To him, she was much like a ladybird mimic- unassuming until it was too late for her prey: a danger in disguise. 

Her reactions, however, were lacking, dismissive if not immensely exhausted. She knew well enough to suppress the blistered and scorned side of herself from others. It hadn't fully reared its head since her uni days, where the persona of Molly had been borne. It became apparent that she was quite adept in facades, as much as he, if not even more so. Moriarty was still uncertain if he was more impressed or suspicious. 

That side of her, buried deep behind the visage of humble Molly Hooper, roared to life in an excruciatingly painful event. 

Music filtered through the morgue, the melancholy melodies much unlike the usual pop tunes often heard from the pathologist's lab. Slowly, she turned in her stride to the rhythm, gliding from the table to her desk to retrieve a clipboard full of papers pertaining to the recently deceased. 

"Held between Heaven and Hell," she sweetly sang to the familiar body on her slab, "As they're dancing. As they dance over and over..." 

Upon the medical forms was the information of a woman named Christina Malley, a former classmate of hers, one she considered as a friend. She wasn't afraid of the macabre nature of Molly's major- she'd encounter it as well in her own medical profession. Tina thought modifying the human body was fascinating as she followed the path of a cosmetic surgeon. 

And here she was, four months pregnant on the cold, stainless steel slab, waiting to be dissected like the pig from their biology class in uni. 

In these moments, her mask was neglected, the pain much too great to convincingly don it. Very few people visited her anyways. 

Removing the engagement ring and the wedding band clenched her heart. There was no way she could face Neil- not after being the one to set them up, not after being the one to cut her up. She could still remember the day she introduced Tina to the lad, how his face froze in awe. That entire day, he fawned over the auburn-haired woman, sending his small friend appreciative glances. He loved her from the start. Before then, she had never seen anyone so smitten. She never would again. 

It just wasn't fair how her past had the innate ability to pierce her shields so deeply and destroy her carefully constructed defenses. 

She dropped the rings in a small baggy to be given to the deceased's partner, hissing as if they burned her. 

When she came to her senses, another song had begun to play. With many memories encompassing the music, the pathologist let out a wavering exhale. 

They both grew up listening to Voyage, finding love in the older band upon the reveal of a lovely voice they came to learn was a woman called Sharon Den Adel. It was one of the numerous strange coincidences that Molly and Christina bonded over: their obscure taste in music. 

Her personal life had no place in her lab, but somehow it always traced its way back there. Shame. 

In the time she'd taken to deposit the bag on top of her desk and turn back, her sight had changed. A mixture of despair and fury wracked her chest. How Sherlock had managed to sneak into the morgue without her knowing, the pathologist would never fathom. The mere image of him standing over the beloved body, savagely prodding at her extremities prompted her vision to bleed red. 

Sure, John and Moriarty were also there, but they hadn't dared to poke at the cadaver of someone who was quite dear to her. 

"Ah yes, Molly, I'll need a quick sample from this one. Do be hasty, I have impor-" 

"No," she ground out. With a steely tone and tightly pressed lips, she denied him outright. The small woman wasn't going to allow him to violate Tina, violate her unborn child- her godchild. 

Molly Hooper had long become exasperated with the tactless consulting detective who had bullied Meena into transferring when she refused his entry to the pathology labs when Molly wasn't present. At this point, exasperation was far behind her. Exasperation was too genteel of a term. She was livid, seething where she stood. 

"I don't believe I allowed you to tell me no, Doctor Hooper." The charming smile sent her way merely stoked the flames of her acerbity. How dare he march into her territory and make demands as if he were in control? He never was. 

Pink lips turned up in a nasty, bitter smirk unbefitting of the woman they thought they knew. In a movement much too smooth to be ignored, the brunette nearly prowled across the floor as she spoke with a deeply chilling tone. "You touch her again and you'll have to figure out how to do your consulting without fingers." A petite hand plucked a scalpel from the tray beside her and gestured at the young Holmes. "She is not to be handled, dismembered, or sampled in any way. Especially not by you." 

Icy eyes narrowed in displeasure a the usually cheery pathologist. That will not do, he thought to himself before hissing his response at her. 

"Even if you knew her, she probably used you much like everyone else does. What did you have to offer her, this Christina? Certainly nothing more than advice, but she must've been too furtive-" 

With an outraged screech, Molly lunged for him, mouth turning into a snarl. She was hell-bent on making him take back what he said. Today was absolutely not the day for his shit. 

Despite her attempt, she only travelled a metre towards him before a pair of arms snagged her midsection and secured her to a muscled form. 

Hot tears of anger seared her flushed cheeks as she struggled in the man's grasp. Moran was previously nowhere to be seen so it was only logical that he was the one to restrain her. Although he hadn't been the one to agitate her, she yearned to dig the blade into his skin so he would release her, so she could teach Sherlock a bloody lesson. But she wouldn't; he wasn't to blame. 

John glared at his flatmate- how could he continue to treat his friend like that? What he'd done was terribly aggressive, just not good at all. Sure it'd been ages since the pathologist had allowed him to manipulate her with the falsified allure of the curly haired sociopath. 

What the Hooper woman failed to keep track of was the time, the lab doors parting to reveal her companion's husband who blankly addressed the situation. 

His former classmate, and wife's best friend, was held close by a blond man, scalpel in hand as she bawled. Her tears did nothing to disguise her furious glower directed at the infamous consulting detective who towered over the corpse of his pregnant wife.

"Holmes, you touch her and I'll shoot you myself," the sniper growled. Though he was extremely wary of the edge the shaking woman in his grip possessed, he had a greater fear of Moriarty and his sickeningly toxic stare. He was more damned if he let go than if he held true.

"Get out," She spat, twisting away from Sebastian. "Just get out!"

Of course, in all of his unnecessary drama, Sherlock strutted out with his Belstaff flaring out behind him, pulling the good doctor along behind him. As he did so, Watson wrenched his arm from the taller man's clasp and sauntered away from him with a venomous stare of disappointment.

As Molly wriggled from the soldier's grip, the red-headed newcomer strode forward to embrace her tightly, whispering unintelligibly to her.

Like a broken record, she repeated the same phrase as if any of them held her at fault.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry." None of them liked how she rocked herself where she stood.

"Molly," Moriarty called out, breaking the mantra of her hushed apologies, "We're taking you home and somebody else will finish here." He nodded at the man tangled in the small pathologist who reciprocated the movement with understanding.

"Go home, Gretta." He murmured into familiar brown hair before nudging her towards Jim and Sebastian.

"But what about-"

"Someone else can do it. You need some rest." Neil's haggard gaze landed on the beefy man who restrained his friend.

"If that arse ever touches my wife again, would you beat the daylights out of him?" His exhaustion allowed a deep roll of his Scottish lilt present itself in his question.

"With pleasure. Let's get you home, Molls."

The pair led her away after depositing the scalpel in a drawer, missing the widower's embrace to his late wife who lay on the slab.

Moriarty paused at the doorway without turning to face the other man.

He only gave a vague direction before leaving, "Check the desk." 

They were Molly's friends so guiding the husband to the bands was a small courtesy.

If that man was anything else to her- he'd be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs used are Cold by Aqualung ft. Lucy Schwartz and Frozen by Voyage ft. Sharon Den Adel


	3. Internal Disputes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly declined to show what kind of monsters lurked in her mind. If she didn't control herself, they'd all know soon enough how well she played the game and she refused to be forcibly taken from it. The game of illusion was all she'd ever experienced, and they'd all rue the day that Molly Hooper lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some family stuff come up, whoops. Work too gotta make money somehow. This is more so a filler chapter, sorry if you wanted something more exciting. If there are any questions or comments, feel free to leave them below. Thanks for reading!

Rather than detouring and taking the pathologist to a property he'd _acquired _, Moriarty decided in keeping his word and returning her to her lowly flat. Though she could obviously afford better, it seemed as though she refused to do so. Perhaps to sustain her "Poor Molly" persona the others had grown accustomed to. It was warm and comfy, despite it being a bit old and outdated.__

____

____

Jim had thought nothing of the domestic décor, placing her in the pond with the other boring people he'd quickly grown tired of. Now, he knew better, her image a symphony in the sea- a force to be reckoned with. If he had better foresight, she would've easily won him the war between him and the British Government. She had, after all, been a Holmes informant for years. That he knew. Before Sherlock had ever made his way into her lab, she was on the Ice Man's radar. He learned that while digging around, attempting to find who Molly Hooper truly was. 

The apathetic woman robotically made her way to the kitchen to feed her tom, face blank yet again. She shivered with every step, concerning the sniper. Molly was unfortunately just caught in the middle of things, or so he initially assumed. Nothing more than a casualty of sociopaths. Her reaction to Holmes was extreme, she must've been close to her breaking point in the long run. 

Consumed by the numbing reality that she lost control, the brunette trudged around her flat like a zombie. That was completely unacceptable. That behavior wasn't Molly Rebecca Hooper, but Margaretta Riona Harth- someone she couldn't be anymore. Taking her mother's maiden name and resorting to being called by a pet name of her given name aided in the disassociation from her former self while keeping her initials. 

Margaretta Harth was coarse and vindictive, harsh and manipulative. Very few people who knew Harth actually knew the truth. Calculating and cold, she strived to punish those who seldom believed that a mere woman could ruin them, especially a woman so small and seemingly demure as she. Oh how they were wrong. Almost everyone was wrong about her, including the governmental Holmes. He only had a hunch as to what she was capable of concealing. 

Despite his interest in her due to the academic papers published as Hooper, he was never able to dig into her past self. The only reason he had tabs on her was because she was a reliable pathologist- one who was unswayed in the face of danger or prodigious bribes. She bowed to no one but herself; that was her creed. 

Many times did she reconsider her life choices, begrudging her withdrawal from the easily stoked anger and yearning for vengeance. Could she have ruled London as Margaretta while maintaining Molly? Or Britannia even? Since it had taken Jim a few years to even glimpse past her cloak, she bet that she could've been what Moriarty was. She just knew where to flaunt her skills and where to restrain her yearning to let loose. 

She could recall the days where others feared her as much as they feared the reaper, thinking she was sent to punish them in his stead. Any fool would let that opportunity go to waste, and a fool she was not. If there was anything she refused to be, it'd be a fool; fools never prosper. 

Ages ago, the lithe woman held control over those around her when she was naught but a girl, easily using her demure image to gain information that could ruin lives. How else did she know that her daddy wasn't her real father? Years passed milking that tidbit of data, cruelly taunting her lascivious mother who cared more about who crawled between her legs than her own daughter. 

There were no regrets regarding that. What girl could regret being bought things? The newest dolls and technology at her disposal? Who could hate that? 

Though Molly denied the disapproval regarding her upbringing, she always felt lost. Something felt missing from her childhood. Many could agree that money solved every childhood qualm but loneliness. That's why the attachment to the Holmes came about, Mycroft and Sherlock were just like her: too intelligent for the masses. 

After a half hour of the pathologist staring at absolutely nothing, Sebastian felt the need to make contact with her. From the time he spent carefully watching her interactions as his boss masqueraded as Jim from IT, he felt as if he had a good idea of her personality. He knew Molly was brilliant, she somehow found out that she was being shadowed. The former militia man was a bit taken aback when she concocted a path from the hospital to her home with minimal camera exposure- which was near impossible unless you knew exactly where all of the cameras were, and even then it was extremely difficult to avoid being seen. 

"Molly?" 

No move was made to look at him. Even Toby ignored the man, choosing to quietly sit on his human's lap. 

So Sebastian tried again. 

"Molly Hooper." There was more force with the second attempt. 

The slow swivel of her head caused the sniper to shiver. Her movement reminded him much of the young men who were shocked by the cruelty of war, their thousand yard stare attempting to search his soul for a reason as to why they were fighting. He never knew how to explain why, so he didn't. Those ones weren't his problem if they were just going to end up dead- he knew better than to get attached to people who wouldn't last. They were supposed to kill, not get buddy-buddy with one another. 

Cold chocolate eyes peered at him with the blankest of curiosity, a thin sneer gracing her pressed lips. 

What could he possibly want, Molly wondered. There was no one she wished to be around that day, let alone in that moment. It took a lot of effort to remain subdued when all Molly wanted to do was break everything she could in her home- after taking Toby to her neighbor Bridget of course. The tom was currently her only light in her life. 

Other than her cat, what did she have to live for? Not her work- dead people never appreciated her work: living people rarely did, Not a day went by where she loathed how thankless her hard efforts were. Cutting others up as a profession wasn't easy! It took years of studying and tests. 

"Molly!" His voice seemed more insistent the third time around. That would not do. 

"What do you want, Moran? Have you had enough of a laugh today? No? Not yet?" She lowly hissed, nose wrinkled in distaste. If she wasn't trying to maintain her control, she'd turn her snarl into a roar, raging as best she could. No, no, Margaretta was dead! 

Sebastian refused to flinch, how could he miss the crucial factors that made Molly a demoness in disguise? Surely her behavior wasn't a one off deal- it did seem too natural to her. Plus, if she were just a boring bird, his boss would hold no interest in her so she must have similar tendencies or past experiences. If she hadn't worked at Bart's, would she be in the same criminal circles as he and Moriarty were? Could she take them with no effort? The revelation was astonishing. He liked to think that he wasn't the average daft cunt that came from the army, he did commit more crimes than his battalion was able to discharge him for. 

Molly was on par with Jim while holding her image relatively untarnished and with absolute discretion. He honestly feared the outcome if she were to rebel against their forces. 

"I wanted to know if you were all right. When have you last eaten?" 

"I'm not hungry." 

"That wasn't my question, Molly." 

Moran was annoying her- he wasn't her father by any means. 

"I said I'm not hungry," the brunette snapped. 

The crime lord huffed a quiet laugh to himself as he glided to stand beside his mercenary. A gentle flip of the wrist towards the pathologist did nothing but make her bristle, "You will eat." 

What she wouldn't give to stab that dastardly man! Dig a blade deep into his organs and twist, bathe her hands in his ruby blood. Perhaps his blood would be darker from the corruption of his sins. Crimson was more appealing to her. She preferred fresh cadavers for the fact that they still bled. 

In the end, the pathologist agreed to eat, but only for Toby's sake. She wouldn't be much use to anyone in the hospital.

Molly did, however, scatter half of her meal upon the Westwood suit hovering less than a metre from her and counted that as a personal victory.


	4. Rising Frustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft grounds Molly from work and my is she livid. With a lack of a social life and Meena gone, the pathologist realizes she has nothing but her cadavers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Working two jobs never did much for my personal life let alone my hobbies, but I'm back now. I should have another chapter cranked out within the next week, I'm writing it currently (or at least trying to.) I'm not sure where this is going, so I'm just letting the story writes itself.

Apparently, her spat with the youngest Holmes had caught wind to his elder brother and Molly had subsequently been arranged to have paid time off until the next week. It was driving her bloody insane. Moriarty's dog tailed her to be sure that she wasn't going to do anything untoward to either herself or the consulting detective she was rather miffed at and that in itself was a bit insulting. 

If Sherlock was to be taken out of the picture, she would've allowed him to overdose or tainted his drugs by now. He was none the wiser when high out of his damn mind, contrary to his own belief. 

All she wanted was something to do. Her job quickly became her life and she had nothing else to occupy her time. Having that stolen away from her in the hopes of quashing her squall with Sherlock was putrid and vicious. There was absolute certainty that Mycroft knew that Molly was rather uninvolved with anything but her pathology, therefore she was livid that she was both chaperoned and forced onto a _vacation_ before her potential probationary period. Probationary with the Ice Man rather than Bart's itself. 

Long story short, she was going batty from the lack of stimuli of her beloved occupation. Moran shadowed her every move outside her flat, gently guiding her away from any path she could've taken towards the hospital like an absolute prat. Granted, her time away would only be five days, but that was five days too long with nothing to do. The only day Molly technically took off were Thursdays and even then she mostly worked at least half the day because no one else could bring themselves to deal with Sherlock Holmes when he became pushy and irate- throwing deductions this way and that for maximum damage to get whatever he wanted. The only reason she allowed him to initially manipulate her was due to pity, the brunette knew that he felt alone despite his offstandish claims of needing no one but himself. He was too smart for others to appreciate: she remembered the feeling herself. Hell, most of the Yard took her for a ninny for her _crush_ on the consulting detective, a man who barely understood colloquialisms and sarcasm more often than naught. Some things just couldn't be explained to a man who would rather be technically correct than morally so. 

The first day was torturous, she failed in sneaking around London in an attempt to reach Bart's undetected. Not only had Sebastian made himself known near her person, Mycroft had texted her to _remind_ her about her time off. The gall of that right prick rubbed her the wrong way; how dare he? _She_ wasn't the problem- his damned brother was! 

Although she could take her frustrations out on Sebastian, she doubted he'd give her the enjoyment she yearned for. If there was something Molly desperately needed- it was an outlet- which was unjustly wrenched from her grasp. 

Another day passed slowly, but didn't drag as the small woman took to exercise to expel her energy. Ignoring the questions from the sniper, she merely kept going, only giving him her attention when he verbally corrected her posture. 

Halfway through the next day after a shite night of restless sleep, Molly paused to stare speculatively at the large man. Reading over documents quickly became useless, she was too jittery and wary to coherently process the information and metabolise it into understanding. 

"I want you to teach me self-defense." 

"Excuse me?" His gaze shot up from the dim screen of his mobile as quickly as his eyebrows rose towards his hairline which was nearly comedically pale. He either pissed Jim off enough to have the crime lord prank him or he was trying to throw off a tail. 

"I want to learn how to protect myself- I have loads of time that I don't know what to do with. And you know wigs exist, right? There's honestly little need to bleach or dye your hair if you shell out the quid for a good one, lace front." 

He disregarded her statement about his ridiculously blond locks and nodded at her with a gravely saddened expression. 

"It's about time if you don't already know how to- with you being involved with Holmes and all. Especially since the Boss put you on his radar. Neither have the best track records, y'know." 

"I am quite aware," her gaze floated down to the couch she sat on when Moriarty was just _Jim from IT_ then _her boyfriend Jim from IT_. She always knew he was too well rehearsed, too willing to goad her meek Molly-self. While she was enthralled to perhaps include him in her _Molly_ life to display that she was a normal person capable of finding affection despite her profession, she flounced on the side of caution while flirting with the obscurity of a relationship. In the end, it was all a rouse, but she was more so inconvenienced than hurt; he was supposed to be the one she could settle down with and eyebrows wouldn't quirk in question. Molly had an agenda to proceed in life as a statistic, barring her involvement in pathology. 

"Plus, you owe me one." 

Moran rolled his azure eyes with a harrumph. 

"Is that so?" 

"I could've slit your throat that day to get to him," She stared him down with a blasé expression, "And yet I didn't." 

A chill chased the length of the man's taut spine at her toneless voice. 

"Fine, but I'm running this by Moriarty." 

"Now if possible," came the demand guised as a suggestion. 

Frowning at his phone, Sebastian typed a carefully worded request to his employer, wary of the implications from either side if he said no or something went wrong. Double-edged swords could weaponise the wrong people. 

He didn't exactly fear Jim because he was irreplaceable to the man's business, but to Hooper- he was nothing but a nuisance, which instilled a healthy fear in him. The sniper truly knew next to nothing of the woman, but what he assumed from watching her when his boss masqueraded as her boyfriend and a bit after when they were uncertain of using her as leverage against the consulting detective. 

She was a wildcard that he'd respect. 

Night came and the brunette was itching for a response to the proposal that Moran had apparently made to Jim. What she said was true, she could have easily injured the mercenary in an attempt to shear Sherlock's face clean from his skull. It'd probably be worth it too because she doubted Jim would do anything in retaliation due to his increased interest in her. But in the end she hadn’t, Moran was important to Moriarty and if she could admit one thing- he wasn’t _unbearable_. 

Molly would endure much more of Moran than she would of Sherlock, especially right now.


	5. Beginning of Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly gets her wish while digressing a bit more about her past. Her motto was "Get better, stay bitter," and she made sure to stick to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, but here all the same. It's going somewhere, I'm just not sure yet. Feedback is much appreciated, and this is unbeta'd. This has a bit of character development and a touch of action while still being a filler. How the hell do you write anything more than a filler for Christ's Sake?

Her answer came the next dawn, Moran attempting to drag her from bed for some inane reason. 

What he didn’t expect from the small woman was her sleep addled lunge with a knife hidden somewhere in the vicinity of her pillow and headboard. Deftly dodging the clumsy attack, he snatched her wrist and nearly slung her into the wall before realizing how Moriarty would punish him for possibly giving her a black eye. 

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to enter a lady's room without permission?" She hissed, words slurred with sleep. The twinge of apprehension in her speech made him pause for a moment. 

Snatching her weapon away, Molly tutted as she lazily strode towards her wardrobe, "Because many men I knew growing up never quite remembered until I reminded them- albeit a tad more force than they expected." 

She remembered those dogs, the ones who waited until nightfall to steal into her room in hopes of tasting her young, supple flesh. They never knew what to expect as she sat, waiting, with a coy smile and a pair of glasses at hand. Who could notice their prey not ever touching their drink when they were preparing for a nice, fresh lay? Surely, he would be her first because the Harths didn't raise some _slag_ for a daughter. 

It would be truly unfortunate for the young teen to drag the predators to their rooms and tuck them in, clean the glasses, and orchestrate their demise. For most it was mercury poisoning, many did quite a bit of business in Japan- swordfish was potent in large amounts. No one was wiser about their passing. Hands should remain to one's self. 

"I take it he agreed. What are the rules?" 

In the gentle light filtering through the falsely cozy curtains littered with a bright paisley print, Moran avoided her prying eyes and chose to observe her room. It was rather sparse despite the sentimental persona of _Molly_ , only a trinket or two strategically placed on her vanity and the few bare spaces on her bookcase. She's good, Moran thought, before looking at his phone to recite the rules from his boss to his new pupil. 

The mercenary had little time to turn as the woman began shoving him out the door of her bedroom and into the hall of her flat, roughly slamming the door shut behind him. 

Perhaps he could see only a glimmer of what Moriarty did, but Moran was still partially unsure as to where the infatuation with Hooper started. Surely the crime lord wasn't truly enamoured with the lithe woman with a deadlier bite than imagined? Or was he not completely immune to the most human of wiles, a desire for companionship the hired gun could not fulfill. 

Settling on the hideous, busy couch, Sebastian allowed the time Molly took to dress and get ready to contemplate further reasons his boss had for her involvement past that with Sherlock; quite frankly he was drawing a blank. Rough hands roved over the tom in the meantime. There were answers he was not privy to. And quite honestly, he was afraid what the future contained if his employer truly held a candle to the lass- especially if he would set London ablaze if scorned in the very slightest. This, indeed, was quite precarious. Moran knew there would be fire either way. 

Scouring her room for the weapons she stashed from Sherlock (quite successfully she might add), Molly threw on old athletic clothes and a new pair of trainers she only wore when she wasn't working which was rare. The sporty pullover paired with the tight vest made it look like she had some semblance of cleavage which was laughable- she wanted to learn how to kick arse, not look for a lay at whatever gym Moran was taking her to. She zipped it up as far as she could without feeling suffocated and slipped the small blade into the waistband of her joggers. The pistol hidden within an old antiquated tome would have to wait. Having both Moriarty and Mycroft know the cards she held closest to her chest just wouldn't do. 

Pulling her dull auburn hair into a tight ponytail, Molly made her way to the loo to brush her teeth and wash her face- staring at her own pale reflection in the mirror. At what point would it be safe for Margaretta to return to the cesspool of London? When would she stop being so fearful of regressing to who she was? 

As she burst into the main room of her flat, Toby startled from under the large man's hands, running to the kitchen. Although she'd slightly frightened him, he knew that shoes of any sort meant that she was going for the day and had rushed to his bowl for food. 

Within the safety of her own home, she dared to smile softly at the cat who ignored his meal for a few moments to greet his caretaker with genuine joy. 

"Today's going to be a good day, Toby-baby! Eat up." She sang to the cat while patting his head. It wasn't like Sebastian had anyone else to gossip to but Jim anyways- possibly John because she knew they were acquainted from war. 

Thinking of Doctor Watson always made her a touch disappointed, he was such a good dog stuck with an insufferable prick. He was the kind of person no one would expect to join the fray without a second thought, but be immensely glad when he did. He was a whirlwind of self-sacrificing loyalty many took for granted, much like the prat who flat shared with the veteran. 

He was the type of person Molly would want to be if she weren't already so tainted- but it was much too late for her. 

Running a finger down the soft spine of her feline with great consideration, Molly stood and kept her wandering thoughts from bleeding into her eyes or face as she glanced at the tall blond to her left. She seriously had to show him where to get wigs, because the platinum sheen of his coiffed hair unnerved her at its unnatural hue. 

"We're perusing wigs when we're finished, you still look bloody absurd." 

He scoffed and began to shoo her out the door and into a black car that waited for them at the kerb. This was going to be something. 

After a tedious half hour of stretches and warm-ups, the slight woman glared at the mercenary. 

"Go ahead, hit me." 

He put his hands up, bracing his feet evenly on the floor. She was going to realize exactly why they called him the Tiger. 

Bouncing slightly, he dodged her sloppy lunge feeling her hit the air next to his ribcage. He turned without crossing his feet, almost prowling around her before knocking her right foot from underneath her as it was turned inward rather than outward. 

Collapsing to the mat, Molly pursed her mouth as she rolled to her feet. There was no way she could take him by surprise with poor posture- so she mimicked him. Her hands balled, thumb on the outside and to the side, leveled between her jaw and collarbone. Rather than splaying her shoulders out, they were kept close to her sides. She must be tight and compact, yet ready to move just like Moran. Balance was crucial. 

Spreading her feet a shoulders-width apart, knees ever so slightly bent, the smaller woman had another go at the man. Low and quick should catch him off guard. No wide or swinging punches, a snap of her elbow projected a fist towards him. 

Darting backward, Sebastian barely missed her punch aimed at his thigh. Molly may not be strong yet, but she was a hell of a learner! 

Grabbing the arm that was left extended a touch too long, he grabbed her, throwing her as cautiously as he could to the ground. 

He knew immediately that she was going to make him work harder than the grunts he trained, not many of them advanced quite as quickly let alone had the intelligence not to be predictable. 

Sable eyes trained on his left shoulder as she stood again, tilting her head from side to side to ease some tension. Faking him out was either going to pass or fail. 

She lunged again, feigning a punch to his shoulder while slightly turning to kick him. 

Both her arm and leg were caught and he pushed her to the ground. 

"Nice try, but your body language gave you away. We'll work on that." Moran tugged Molly to her feet and manipulated her limbs to the proper stance for her stature, slightly lower due to the difference in her center of gravity. 

"First, we're working on stance and footwork, you can't fight without balance and stability. The moment you stumble, you're dead." 

The enjoyment of trying to physically outsmart Sebastian faded, leaving Molly stony-faced. She knew better than the next person that a moment was all it took. A moment before death, a moment before abuse, a moment before assault, a moment before molestation, a moment before sin. 

Molly saw it all; Molly knew it all very well. 

_"Be the calm they fear before the storm,"_ Christina used to say whenever Molly would have her nonverbal moping sessions after the ostracization of their peers, after the realization of her terrible personality and her lackluster parentage, after her major depressive episodes where she saw too much and hated all of it. 

As much as she despised the consulting detective, she understood him perfectly, they were cut from the same cloth (she with much less narcissism, which in itself was a potentially narcissistic thought.) 

Gretta was her way of control when she had no control of her situation whereas Molly the foil- the control of her situation while her character was a fraud. 

Levelling a hollow look at Moran, she nodded. Perhaps Moriarty was who she needed for the ability to burn lives while taking names. Perhaps he was the answer in ending the monotony of a falsified persona and building herself with a name of power. 

But the real question was if he'd allow her to stand beside him rather than below him. 

She tried to focus on that and not her screaming muscles. And to think she thought Moran liked her! The blasphemy of the thought was all that kept her going while he tossed her onto her back time and time again.


End file.
